Monthly Archives: June 2015

Relativity

by in Identity, Luminous Aether | 8 Comments

Having recently returned from several days in the mountains to the south of here, I’m still recovering from 32-hours of rough, high-altitude hiking. I’m not in bad shape this summer, but my body has been issuing a bit of admonishment for the prolonged over-exertion — some parts more than others. Resting for the last few days, I decided to go for a run this morning despite a still protesting hip.

As spring becomes summer, the air warms and the sun rises earlier, I’ll run more frequently in the mornings as opposed to the afternoons. My usual route is along a paved foot path that crosses the town, following the old main road along the shoreline of the lake. Trees, bare in the winter create a leafy shelter from the morning sun, and I don’t have be quite so cautious of icy footing in the warmer weather. But an unexpected difference arises from my running company along the route.

There aren’t so many visitors, casual walkers or leisurely joggers in the mornings. Instead, the route tends to host more determined and athletic runners. Some are serious distance-runners or triathletes, displaying the swiftness of committed competitors. Others are simply younger runners, less frayed by the passage of years. Regardless, where I’m usually the one trying to pick my way past slower traffic in the afternoons, I’m the slower traffic in the mornings.

This morning, I started out not too far behind a local au pair who looks to me like a majestic, twenty-something Nordic goddess. I’ve seen her many times, since she runs along the same 10-kilometer route as myself. However, she does her runs while pushing a jogging stroller. This isn’t easy… Since the jogger can’t lean on the stroller and also can’t swing her arms while pushing, it requires a tremendous amount of leg strength to stay balanced. I focused intently on a pair of impressively well-muscled legs, until about three-miles in, I finally lost sight of her.

There was a time when I wouldn’t have so envied those limbs, but they pounded out a firm rhythm that I can no longer maintain. Running is something of a meter-stick for age. It was at thirty that I first commented to a runner/friend, slightly older than myself, that I thought I had been losing about 5 or 6-seconds per mile per year since my mid twenties. He said that seemed about right. Quite a few years have passed since then — the hills feel steeper, the air thinner, and the morning 10K takes about 10-minutes longer than I remember from college… sometimes more. The time goes faster — everything else has slowed.

That slowness also includes the ability to recover from injuries. It was two summers back that I fractured a lower fibula while in Japan. I took it easy for about two-months, just long enough to get seriously out-of-shape. In desperation, I started running in a brace, ignoring the blinding pain until I was so full of endorphins that it didn’t matter. When I mentioned this to my doctor, he rather tersely described the surgery that would be required if it didn’t heal properly. It was another four-months before I laced up a running shoe — I don’t think I’m going to mention to my doctor how much it hurt today.

If the running is a little slower, that’s fine. I’ve never been all that competitive anyway. Likewise, I’ve never been an especially fast mountain biker. And just as with my running, I ride slower up the hills every year. But nowadays, I’m also slower down the hills as well, not especially wanting to fracture anything else. Nevertheless, I placed a second in a recent mountain bike race — the first time I’ve ever placed in such a race. Regardless, I wasn’t all that impressed with myself.

Last April marked the point when I would move to a rather less competitive age-group at most events, whether running or riding. And as it turned out for the bike race, I only needed to finish in front of one other person for that (distant) second-place in my division. The numbers left still willing and able to compete at my age have dwindled to the point where I’m being recognized for simply showing up and finishing. Perhaps I should just be happy that I still can?

The views from the tops of Mount Muir and Mount Whitney last week were beautiful, and I earned them myself. Despite being the turn-back person on Wednesday, and accompanying an exhausted (and, I suspect, fearful) teenager back down the trail, I would come back up the next day as the summit guide for a group of women my age and older. Two of the three, including an impressively rugged 65-year old woman, turned back at 14,000 feet, accompanied that day by my partner. Whitney_View_2But their companion, a woman 10-years older than myself, continued on with me to the summit of the highest point in the contiguous United States. And on the return, we made a short but rough side-trip up Mount Muir, just to get in another “14,000er.”

Comparing one’s self to others can be terribly self-destructive; there is always going to be someone better-off, better-looking, healthier, happier… But at some point, it can become even worse to compare one’s self to her own past. “Citius, Altius, Fortius!” I remember feeling that way at one time, seeing myself in the future. But these days, I have to remember that I’m already living in a better time — a time I’ll lament upon when those summit views are forever out of reach. For now, a simple “Cito, Alto, Forto” and an aspirin will have to be enough… and of course, taking in the views.

One Short List

by in Hmmm..., Music | 11 Comments

I usually avoid making lists, whether of the “to-do” variety, or of favorites. I have a friend, however, who seems fond of starting conversations that revolve around creating them. A recent one hinged around, “…the most important people in all of human history.” But after much deep thought over a good bottle of wine, I could only come up with three — including the first common ancestor of humanity not to get eaten by the wildlife before giving birth. However, during a bit of driving this weekend, we had an interesting discussion about music which started after he heard me play this particular piece (stoned caterwaul warning), which I will openly admit has deeply fascinated me ever since I first heard it.

The science writer, Zoe Cormier (Sex, Drugs and Rock n’ Roll: The Science of Hedonism and the Hedonism of Science) points to evidence that as much as four-percent of the general population may not actually have the ability to perceive music at all. But as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, the cognitive scientist, Douglas Hofstadter, proposes that musical taste is among the deep aspects of personality, and that it provides a window into an individual’s “psychic point-of-view.” This compels me to think back to moments when I first appreciated something new about a piece of music, and to wonder what was occurring in my mind at that moment. What is it that causes my taste in music to wander from Baroque to psychedelic?

I was fortunate to have spent my childhood in a home where music was considered an essential part of one’s education, so I’ve compiled a substantial pool of recollections from which to pare out a short list memorable experiences. My earliest memories of listening to music are probably from around age four, when my mom would place a record onto the turntable and I would lay on the floor in front of a speaker, eyes closed while a story played in my young mind. And one musical story that has always remained:
Item-1: Claude Debussy’s, Clair de Lune.

As I grew older, I remember thinking it odd when I would enter a friend’s or a neighbor’s home and hear a television in the background. Ours was hidden away in a cabinet, while music from a large collection ranging from classical to jazz could be heard frequently throughout our home. Music lessons started when I was six-years old. And I remember thinking as a child how amazing it was that while people might not understand differing languages, music could communicate to anyone. This is probably the most difficult time from which to place something into a list, but it was also when I first realized the beauty of the human voice:
Item-2: Franz Schubert’s, Ave Maria, performed by, Sumi Jo.

Unfortunately, the creation of music was also a source of childhood frustration for me. In one of few acts in my life for which I feel sincere regret, I managed to destroy our family’s prized butterfly-grand piano in an act of rebellion when I was ten-years old. Protesting those piano lessons, I didn’t realize that suddenly cutting several strings in the old instrument that had been in my mother’s family since the 1930’s would break one of its cast-iron harps. It was unrepairable, and both my mother and I probably cried for a week. My wish was fulfilled when I wasn’t allowed to touch the replacement.

A few years later, however, I bought an acoustic guitar and tried to teach myself how to play. By this time, I was listening to records in my bedroom, but I found that I didn’t really like most of the popular music of the time (early 80’s). Then, one warm summer night when I was probably fourteen years old, I accompanied an older friend who could drive to meet someone at the local high school (likely for something illegal). I remember that it was a warm evening with a beautiful red sunset, and I waited in the car in a mostly empty parking lot, listening to a cassette tape she had left to keep me entertained. For the time, she must have had a good stereo in her car, because I remember her returning after a long while to find me laying on the windshield, doors open, playing at full volume music that had been recorded nearly a decade earlier.
Item-3: From Pink Floyd’s, Dark Side of the Moon:
Time, and
Great Gig in the Sky (original Clare Torry vocal).
(They were played together on the original recording.)

Recently talking with some older friends who managed to obtain Grateful Dead 50-Year Reunion tickets, one of them commented that, “There are three kinds of people in the world: those who get it, those who don’t get it, and those who realize there isn’t really anything at all to get.”  Perhaps… As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize that music is really about the uniquely personal experience it creates. Sometimes the experience is entirely in your head, as when I lay on the floor as a four-year old. But at other times, it can be more visceral. And, there are times when it can be both. I think live performances are best for the latter.

Featured imageSomething I discovered while living in Japan as an adult was the experience of live music in small, close-up venues — all kinds of music! Large Japanese cities, like Tokyo, are littered with small, underground (literally) “live-houses.” Mostly ignored by police, they’re an unacknowledged alternative to Japan’s usually strict social order — places where people can express themselves freely, especially with regard to experiencing music. While above ground Japanese civilization tacitly accepts escape by dulling the senses with alcohol, a live-house offers the opposite — something my Dead Head friends might understand.
Item-4: The Japanese, “Boris,” Feedbacker.

So I was probably wrong as a child, that music could communicate the same things to anyone — at least not everything, or in the same manners. Somewhere along the way, experience colors our perceptions and molds the plastic of our minds to hear things in certain ways, to tell a story according to our own “psychic point-of-view.” Hofstadter is probably correct, that musical tastes are a window into our personal perceptions. Like a visceral response to cultural norms or religious icons, music probably reflects the stories we play in our own minds while we listen — at least as adults. We feel what we can understand, as I can feel the passion at 4:00 in the piece, “Reincarnation” –
遠神恵賜
Tohkami megumi…
A distant god’s precious gift!
Item-5: Kenji Kawai, Ghost in the Shell (English Title).

Liability

by in Altitude, Boundary Behavior, Risk | 12 Comments

Echoing my old doctor (who now works for cash only), someone I know quite well once commented that considerably more than half of the cost of the products manufactured by the company where he works is committed to liability insurance. The company, trusted for the high quality and reliability of its products, makes climbing and mountaineering equipment.

I was thinking about this last weekend. On the way back from attending a mountain bike race, where I observed that “Sam Splints” and duct tape actually work quite well on fractured forearms, I made a quick stop at a mountaineering equipment supplier. I’d been wanting to replace a piece of rope-handling equipment and a “locking carabiner,” an aluminum loop with a spring-loaded gate that can be opened and then locked closed.

Upon arriving home about forty-dollars lighter, I detached the included documentation from the two new pieces of gear. The rope-handling item was a “belay tube,” essentially a chunk of aluminum with two slots rapgearwmachined through it that’s used to add friction to a rope as it passes through the slots. It has no moving parts. Attached to it was a sheet that unfolded to 12-inches by 16-inches, and that was covered with illustrated directions in English on one side, and with fine-print translations to eight more languages on the other side.

The carabiner, however, had three, large, thickly folded documents attached to it. Two of the sheets contained a litany of warnings and directions printed in twenty-two different languages. A third sheet was printed on both sides with thirteen sets of illustrations, and four technical charts, including explanations of the many markings on the carabiner itself.

Reading carefully through the sheets, I could understand why a manufacturer of equipment upon which one quite literally places the faith to stay alive would want to include complete and concise warnings — including, “This equipment should be used only by trained and competent persons.” And as an engineer, I can understand the inclusion of technical specifications. That said, however, is it then really necessary to provide advisories such as the need to consider the length of the device itself in a fall-arrest system (which, incidentally, is about 3-inches)? Will it even matter to someone who doesn’t read, or who simply ignores that first statement?

These are the moments when that heartless libertarian devil appears on my right shoulder and whispers into my ear… “Natural selection.”

To be honest, I don’t do much climbing or mountaineering anymore. I’ll occasionally rope up on a winter ski ascent, though I generally ski back down via some less challenging route.  Or I might belay others under various circumstances. And Featured imageI’ve been known to rappel off my roof during a few winter snow accumulation removals.

At the behest of my better angel, I’ll also work with the local fire district SAR (Search And Rescue) if they need people, especially in the winter. Usually, it’s to help locate someone who became lost in poor weather while wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt. These kinds of things rarely turn out well.  And to be honest, it makes me feel badly when that’s the case.

So, just when does poor judgment compel compassion from others?

It seems that every year around here, one or more skiers will come to regret not wearing a helmet, snowboarders disastrously find off-piste tree-wells, kayakers and boaters unexpectedly experience 45-degree water, and mountain-bikers take the quick routes off cliff-side trails. SAR shows up with an extra-large Band-Aid, glorified Sam Splint and duct-tape, and maybe a cup of hot tea. And the survivors get to find out whether or not their health insurance will cover the cost of a Care Flight to the nearest, big-city trauma center. Meanwhile, people who “know better” shake their heads before downing a third 1-900-FUK-MEUP.

I’m not actually sure who’s doing the whispering when I climb up the ridiculously overpriced ladder I use to get onto my roof. Idown_wp don’t particularly want to injure myself doing house maintenance; although, it has occurred to me that it could be a way to redistribute a little wealth — should I ever get lazy, go broke… and lose my scruples. Regardless, I’ll double-check the rigging when it’s a long way down. But as I lean it back into space, I vehemently reserve the right to risk my own ass.

Things Rare and Things Beautiful

by in Death, Identity, Japan, Loneliness, Love, Mom | 4 Comments

“Things rare or things beautiful
here are wisely assembled.
They instruct the eye to
look at all things in the world
as if never seen before.“
                        —Paul Valery, 1937

Visiting with my mom over a long weekend, I found myself picking her memories for information about my childhood in Japan. We left Japan and moved to the US when I was only five-years old, but I still have many clear memories of my early childhood there. Some things, however, lack the context of a larger picture. For example, “Mura-sama,” a stoic, but kindly older woman who sometimes watched over me as a young child.

In Japan, our family lived in two places on the west side of Tokyo. I was too young to remember much about the first place, other than that it opened onto a very narrow, dead-end street. Our home must have been quite compact. I have a vague memory of my older sister squeezing past someone in the kitchen, I think. And I remember my mom walking me up to the end of the street, and back out to the intersection. It probably wasn’t more than a hundred feet, but I recall it being an exciting adventure.

Some time after my brother was born, we moved to a small (by American standards, anyway) house in some hills overlooking the southwest side of the city. From the back, one could see the lights of Tokyo and the Kawasaki ports at night — provided the smog in those days allowed a view. I remember parts of the yard being green and overgrown, and that there was a beautiful stone patio with some wooden chairs. I also remember my father’s peaceful, evening silhouette there. It was his quiet place. Sometimes, I would sit with him in the darkness while he pointed out familiar patterns of city lights or stars.

One room of that house was intermittently occupied by “Mura-sama,” who was a nanny of sorts. She came and went according to a schedule that I didn’t comprehend. But she would stay for days, mostly watching over my younger brother and myself, and sometimes my older sister, while my parents were both away. She seemed much older than my mom, and usually very serious. And it’s an apparently faulty recollection that her name was “Mura-sama.” According to my mom, her family name was actually Murasaki. “Sama” was the formal suffix befitting of the expectation for reverent behavior toward an elder.

My memory of Mrs. Murasaki is of her being a generally restrained personality, mostly expressionless, and usually of few words. And perhaps that’s why I’ve never forgotten her personal interactions with me. Ordinarily, she would cook meals for us and make sure that we ate. And then she would eat alone while we slept or entertained ourselves. One time, when I didn’t feel well and wouldn’t eat, she quite seriously explained that, “It will be very sad if you dry up like a leaf and blow away in the wind.”  And then, she brought a bowl of “iriko dashi” broth and a cup of milk-tea — and shared them with me.

Sometimes she would take my brother and me out for walks, pushing my brother in a stroller while I tagged alongside. I once asked her why I couldn’t ride in the stroller. She responded that it was only for very small children, and that I was too old. But then she added that I was old enough to hold her hand. It was a kind and gentle hand, and I remember that I liked to hold it.

Eventually, I was enrolled into a local preschool. Usually, Mrs. Muraskai would walk me there in the mornings, and almost always meet me in the afternoons with my little brother in tow. Sometimes, she would stay and have conversations with the teacher while I occupied my brother. Afterward, at home, she would read to me; and I especially remember her reading “Momotarou” (Peach Boy).  And once, just once, when I “read” a part of the story back to her from memory, I think she might even have smiled; though that too could be another faulty recollection. But that’s the way my young mind committed “Mura-sama” to my memories.

Asking my mom about Murasaki-sama evoked a long conversation. It was a time that I suspect my mom hadn’t thought much about in many years. In those days, my father was spending long hours proving himself as a new physician, while my mom had decided that she needed to continue with her own work or risk losing her connections in Japan. And my older sister was busily immersed in her last years of elementary school. So my parents arranged for Mrs. Muraskai to live with us for most of the week. In my mom’s words, “She was just someone who took care of you while we were away.”  But who was she; who was this kindly spirit behind the solemn expression?

According to my mom, Mrs. Murasaki was someone whom my father knew. My mom didn’t know from where, or how he had come to know her. But I can guess. I remember other guests at our home in the United States, from times when I was old enough to understand, if not feel, compassion. My father must have seen many patients during those days in Japan, and I suspect that most were people of little means. And the one thing my mom did know about Mrs. Murasaki was that all of her family had perished in the fires that swept through Tokyo near the end of WWII.

I didn’t know what to say, and I think my mom could see it in my expression. So she went on to explain why we left Japan. The Tokyo of 1975 was still a gritty, polluted city. And Japanese culture was undergoing the last upheavals of social nationalism, making it sometimes uncomfortable for outsiders. I was too young to understand, she said. I didn’t realize how I was being treated by others, or in the preschool.  Despite my Japanese registry, I was seen as “ibunshi”, an outsider.  And my mom had watched disheartened as my older sister, dealing with the same issue of identity, was about to enter the social maelstrom of middle school in a brutally competitive environment.

My parents decided that they didn’t want their children to grow up surrounded by such an atmosphere of difficulty and mistrust. There were other options, of course — segregated neighborhoods, American and international schools. But my parents were looking farther out.  In a B. F. Skinner sort of way, my mom exclaimed, “We wanted to surround our children with something beautiful.” And so we left Tokyo, and relocated to a small town on the west coast of the United States, close to the ocean, and just a few miles from a Buddhist monastery at the edge of a redwood forest.

Even with forty-years of hindsight, I can’t fault my parents for their decision. Though I know that my mom loved and understood the Japanese culture, and that she had carved herself a place and a career from that passion, she also understood that it wasn’t an environment in which to nurture her children in the way that she felt was best. And for reasons of his own, it was an easy choice for my father as well.

Nevertheless, my memories of Japan are like my memories of “Mura-sama.” If there was any bitterness or sadness, or some difficult truth in the reality of things, then it was always hidden from me. What remains of my young consciousness in that time is the memory of things rare and things beautiful — a darkness filled with city lights and stars, sharing a milk-tea, and of walking home one sunny afternoon while holding a warm hand.

_ _ _